He felt like an idiot wearing the black hoodie and the baggy trousers were equally annoying, but since they were so out of character he was sure no one would ever recognize him, if by any chance he’d be captured on some surveillance camera. And they kept him warm, which was a very good thing seeing that the bastard was taking his time. He was dying for a smoke, but then what would he do with the cigarette butt? They could take DNA from it, he’d seen that in a movie.
At long last, the doctor’s car pulled in the driveway. Horace was on the phone.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow and you can tell me everything then’. The same mocking tone he used on him. He wasn’t the only one Dr. Horace was screwing with. The idea made him feel much better, righteous even. It wasn’t about simple petty revenge, it was an act of justice. Just think how many people he would be saving from that bastard’s sick mind games.
The baseball bat connected swiftly with the elderly man’s right temple, felling him to the ground instantly. Still, he needed to make sure. He needed to bash the old jerk’s brains out.
When he got home, Jonathan Price celebrated his heroic act with a bottle of white wine. The good doctor was dead, he couldn’t tell him what to do anymore. For the first time in many months he went to bed with a happy heart, knowing he was finally free from his tormentor. Unfortunately, he was awaken by the same rude voice: ‘You, sir, have a very small dick’. Doctor Horace was still in his head, mocking him as he had been doing for months. No doubt about that, it was the doctor’s voice all right, although he was using a fake British accent. Jonathan curled up in bed, the pillow over his head, trying in vain to keep the voice out. He badly needed to use the toilet, but he didn’t dare as he knew the doctor would be right there with him, looking down on his manhood. ‘You, sir, have a very small dick!’.
Harry Whipple was devastated when he showed up for his regular Monday afternoon appointment only to be told by a sniffling receptionist the poor doctor had been bludgeoned to death the night before. The doctor hadn’t been of much use to him, but he needed the pills. Without those pills he was sure he was going to strangle his wife one of these days. He pleaded with Rosalie until the woman relented and gave him a bottle of pills the doctor kept in his secret drawer, for emergencies. He took two of them before heading home.
As expected, Miriam was at her computer, pretending to work. She always did that. Always something important. A deadline she could not miss. ‘You go to bed, darling, I’ll be along in a minute. Waiting for him to fall asleep. But he could hear her sneering voice. ‘Oh, Harry, you have such a small dick’. Even when he did manage to goad her into having sex, he could hear her laughing. She probably had a lover, too. One with a really big dick. She’ll probably leave him. Why would she waste her life on him? ‘If she does that, I swear to God I will kill her!’
Ylam Harum was quite disappointed with Harry Whipple. Sure, the guy was a mess, he rarely remembered to shave, his business was struggling and he was obviously on the verge of a mental breakdown, but the Council wanted results. And fast. Plans were already in motion for the Krills to move to Earth in five years’ time. By that time, they’d expect the planet to be empty. Johnathan Price’s complete meltdown had been a success, but they didn’t have time to wait for the earthlings slowly killing each other. It was time to take the ‘Small dick’ campaign to a whole new level.
Ylam was confident he could to it, if only the Council would grant him an expeditionary force of at least three ships and a team of the best Krill telepaths. Targeting a minimum of 1000 carefully selected humans, the Earth could be depopulated in as little as one year. It was a big gamble and Ylam was aware he was risking his reputation on the outrageous theory of professor Galan, his mentor. Over 100 years ago, Galan, back then a fresh college graduate, had spent a decade on Earth, posing as a student of an eccentric doctor Freud. Galan came back to Krill with the extraordinary belief that humans’ lives revolved around sex and all of them, males and females, were obsessed with penises. His thesis had created quite a stir at the time, especially on Krill, where there was only one sex and reproduction was left to cloning factories, who only selected the best of the species for genetic material donations. Galan had presented a strong case, however, comparing earthlings to other primitive species, like the two-headed blobs of Sygma 4 or the spider-dogs of Tau, who were known for tearing their rivals limb from limb during mating season.
The council gave Ylam an additional six months, cautioning him to make sure damage to the planet was limited to a minimum as repair and clean-up operations were expensive and, most of all, time-consuming.
This obviously ruled out the option of an all-out war, which would have been the easiest way to eliminate the human race. Just take two of the most powerful men on Earth, the presidents of the US and China and put it into their minds that the other was laughing at his manhood. ‘You, sir, have a very small dick’ ringing in their minds over and over. You’d have a full scale war in a matter of months. But that was too risky, those guys had weapons that could poison the planet for thousands of years. The Council would have his head for that. He’d be sent in exile to the sulphurous shores of Hellenia.
Fortunately, the voyage to Earth took about two weeks, enough time for Ylam to come up with a new strategy. What if, instead of convincing one guy a specific individual was secretly laughing at him, have him believe everybody thought his penis was lacking. Pit one man against a whole community, have him plan wide-scale revenge - small massacres everywhere. That should do it!
The Krill team focused on a small town in rural Oregon, where the most suitable candidate turned out to be one Brad Noughton, a middle-aged balding man who happened to be chief health-inspector at a dairy factory. Happily married and the father of two boys, Brad woke up one day to an annoying voice in his head saying: ‘You, sir, have a very small dick’. He must have had a weird dream, he thought, but as he was shaving in the mirror, he heard the offensive remark again. ‘I know that voice, God dammit’. Much as he raked his brains, he could not identify the voice. Could have been anyone - the head of production or the guy at the coffee shop. He couldn’t even be sure it was a man’s voice, maybe it was that snotty headmistress at the his sons’ school or that Cindy he secretly met every other Friday at that motel right outside the town. In just one week, he became obsessed the whole town was poking fun at his penis. He was aware he was not exactly pornstar material, but, still, he’d had plenty of women in his life and he’d never had any complaints. Yeah, but how many of them had been desperate not to lose him? And his dick? Not one. Even his wife was so invested in her own job and her girlfriends he doubted she’d notice if he was to disappear from her life. Maybe that’s why she had so much fun with her friends, they all laughed at him. ‘How’s that small dick of yours, Jenny?’
Five hundred people died of food poisoning and thousands others suffered extensive internal damage and organ failure after the strange incident at the dairy factory. Still, the voices would not stop commenting on Brad Noughton’s dick. When he committed suicide it was assumed he’d felt guilty for the tragedy that had devastated the town.
Nobody connected the Oregon incident with the catastrophe in India where ten thousands souls drowned in their sleep when a dam was blown up by a criminal hand. It took central authorities six weeks to restore order in the surrounding area where sectarian violence led to a full-blown civil war.
The fire at Wembley stadium was blamed on faulty electrical insulation and no one thought to question William the janitor who had been working there for ten years. The brutal murder of his wife three days later did not even make it to the papers, who devoted all their pages to the carnage on Wembley.
The mechanic in the south of England was a big mistake - his tampering with the brake systems of two dozens cars could not escape the police investigating the string of fatal accidents in the ares. Daniel Hanson admitted to his crimes, but the investigators were not able to establish a motive. No way Daniel was going to tell them about the voices who kept saying ‘You, sir, have a very small dick’.
Ylam sent back a glowing report. The destruction of Earth was going according to plan. Soon, the people of Krill could establish a new colony on Earth without having to kill one single soul. Any surviving humans would be relocated to a few open-air natural museums, where visitors could observe the strange habits of the old inhabitants of the planet, while sipping on one of the delightful beverages the savages had managed to create in their short history. Ylam made a mental note to have someone collect all the recipes, especially that for beer.
Story written for @mctiller's # twentyfourhourshortstory challenge. You can read about this amazing contest here.
Thanks for reading!
